Every dirt mile of Belize's old Northen Highway was further south than I had ever driven. Weathered maps with scribbled notes and arrows of my Mexican miles to chew were now cast behind my seat with the stickey cellophane wrappers of a coconut candy sold everywhere in the Yucatan. Belize, by contrast, was a small country - navigable with the basic awareness of the Caribbean Sea to the east, and the increasingly impenetrable low jungle or pine mountains to the west.
I rolled out of Belize City in Eore, my 1974 Land Rover 88", with 40 gallons of fuel and eager to wander. The travel potential capped in his petrol tanks when properly metered and subjected to controlled spark could comfortably take us to any corner of Belize and back. Conversely, if this energy potential were unmetered and sparked accidentally the intensity of the blaze would reduce the often frustrating collection of aluminium, steel and upholstery to a keepsake I could thumb a lift home with in my pocket. Two alternatives that offered true freedom.
The road south meandered through broadleaf forests and open grasslands. Smooth pavement deteriorated to gravel, dirt or a patchwork of potholes in broken asphalt. Past Dangriga, a hand-painted sign pointed to Blades Branch and later another pointed the way to a fork leading to Monkey River Town. In the lazy afternoon I pulled half-off the track and ate peanut butter and jam on corn tortillas. The sun was shining, the jungle was singing, and on the occasion I shared the road the pace was slow and particularly well suited to a puttering old Land Rover driven by a captivated, travel stained kid.
On a long, open section of gravel track - pink and blue slat-wooden houses on stilts were a vibrant contrast to the green of the forest. In the dust of passing lumber trucks, lazy cook-fire smoke wafted through green Belikin Beer umbrellas that cast shade on busy, red plastic tables and chairs. In the midday heat at the lunch counter lively conversation paused only for a spoon from a bowl of chicken or goat stew. I left Eore on the roadside to shuffle past the rhythmic swaying of reggae beats and hips in flower print dresses. Over a bowl of stew my attention was south while dark skies crept in from the coastal north.
The rain fell with the warmth of the sun. I paused on my rush back to Eore and let it wash away the ocean's salt from my skin, the dirt from a Mayan ruin behind my ears, and the Baja, Mexico beach sand still between my toes. It occurred to me that these remnants of my route may be part of my map home - and they were washing away in a far away place. It is strange where homesickness, or maybe it was travel weariness, where these moments strike. The thought was fleeting and passed with smile; around the next corner a new vista, challenge, or experience would bring me back to my Belizean present.
Soaked and in the driver's seat, the raindrops on Eore's naked aluminum roof beat an indistinguishable, deafening rythm. Water found its way through aging seams and seals to form pools in the corners of the Land Rover's footwells. The windshield was a river and through it the pink and green houses were reduced to running colour. I switched on the wipers to see, but their movements created no more than ripples in the wake of a dugout canoe. I opened my window to cast a smile and a thumbs up to a weathered man tiptoeing barefoot through puddles - a giant leaf held over his head. His blue suit darkened and clung below his knees and at his exposed left elbow by the shoes he clutched to his chest. He smiled and continued, defiant, past myself and the diners huddled under umbrellas.
The rain lasted an hour, then the dark clouds moved inland leaving sunshine blue over jungle green. Eore’s engine fired at the turn of a key, and we continued south through the puddles on the dirt road.
Eight kilometers on stood an illegible road sign of peeling paint. Under it stood two soldiers with their thumbs up. Despite a tendency to be leery of officialdom, I stopped for the two men who were my age and armed only with backpacks.
“We are heading south,” said the taller, in head-to-toe forrest green projecting a commanding voice through a friendly smile.
I tossed my daypack onto my travel gear in the back, “climb in.”
None of us offered a name. I learned that down south they had girlfriends in the same town. It got uncomfortably quiet, and I stole sideways glances whenever rushing rain water emerged from the jungle to cross or pool on our track. I felt sheepish in the spiking humidity and in the closeness of the the 3 of us across the bench-seat. The effort required to avoid eye contact in the confined space was comical; the measured yet casual averting of our eyes. I motioned to the gear lever as the track opened into a long straight and reached between the legs of the military man beside me. I found second gear somewhere towards his crotch and bobble head communicated we were cool - smiling and nodding.
The tension was broken by the first stretch of floodwater. Urging Eore forward through the murky, bumper deep flow - the little Land Rover broke the water’s destructive path to the sea with a small bow wave. We made eye contact again with a smile; we were boys in a Tonka truck.
“A president of Belize used to drive a Land Rover. It is a very strong truck,” remarked the one by the door; his smile unmistakable under a LA Lakers cap.
I returned my focus to the floodwaters and steered towards the safety of the visible road ahead. Eore emerged and continued unflustered. The water turned to shimmering waves of rising humidity over hard-packed dirt punctuated by fist sized rocks embedded in a random and rattle inducing pattern. I tapped the throttle and found traction was good. Outside, breaks in the jungle revealed rivers of mirky water snaking through newly cleaved paths to find the ocean.
The road again disappeared under floodwaters for 100 yards or more. Across the flow sat a lumber truck paused while headed in our direction. Two figures leaned and chatted against the truck’s oversized tires.
I motioned to the water ahead, “It doesn’t look like we can go any further. Do these flash floods last long?”
My passengers glanced at each other. The one sitting next to me pointed behind us with his thumb, “We should go back to town. You dunno - it's still raining in the mountains.”
It took a four-point turn to get Eore turned around. We sped with the confidence of retracing our steps. Around us the grasses and ferns of the forest floor were consumed in an increasing swell of turbid water. I stopped and motioned down into the Land Rover’s footwell at the yellow four-wheel drive knob and thread my arm through legs to depress it. With constant throttle and a foot wedged against the transmission tunnel we waded forward. The increased current was instantly noticeable. “Bugger,” I muttered. The rear end felt loose and the steering heavy as I turned into the water’s flow. Eore’s nose dropped into a submerged rut and rose with a splash, but the rear axle struggled to find traction and slid sideways. “Bugger”, I muttered again.
Eore lurched and bucked as he fought to clamber out. I sawed at the steering wheel - desperate to find enough traction to clear the underwater obstruction. It was odd to see the current split by the front fender; that seemed awful deep. Water splashed my face, and I turned to see my companions fighting to open the passenger door againt the strength of the current and the increasing depth. Looking down, I noticed my lap was submerged and for the first time felt the water’s tepid warmth on my skin. I switched off the ignition to keep a sudden gulp from hydrolocking the little four cylinder engine. My door latch popped without complaint, and I put my shoulder to the door.
Eore was defeated with the drivers fender cutting the current while listing at 20 degrees. Despite sitting on the high side, the door metal bit painfully as I put my force and weight into my shoulder. The door reluctantly moved through the current. Sliding out cautiously, feeling for the road - I clung possessively to the door frame. If Eore succumbed to the current to tip and join its race to the ocean my hope was to use my weight to try and save him. The army clambered out behind me and wordlessly retreated down the road. Easing the door closed, I couldn't help but smile at the odd bits of my gear collecting in the Land Rover’s downriver, rear corner. There was my boonie hat, cellophane candy wrappers, a blue Papermate pen, a misplaced toothbrush, an empty water can and my sleeping bag.
I stumbled through the current by dragging my feet along the road's unseen stones and ruts. From the water's edge, Eore looked precarious and pathetic. Kricher’s descriptions and drawings of parasites, bacteria and other waterborne terrors in “A Neotropical Companion” came to me in vivid detail. There was an itch in every formerly submerged orifice. I was convinced articulated, mucus-lined, microscopic segments with antenna and countless legs were wriggling their way into my innards. There was a sudden urge, a need, for inner purification - perhaps a flash flood of rum. Sitting on the dirt road at the edge of the flood life felt sodden and bleak./
There was a solution here somewhere - it was high time I took stock of my situation. The army was in full retreat and I was wet and alone. I was on a Belizean dirt road in wet shorts, white cottom shirt and tube socks, and Stan Smith runners. Around me swarmed a Charlie Brown, Pig-pen cloud of mosquitoes. There was also the constant noise of the jungle - the insects, birds, and the distant call of a howler monkey - all seemed stifling, entirely foreign and of no comfort.
The top of Eore’s front tire caught my eye - a clear sign that the flood waters were abating. Off the forrest track to my right was a stout tree within reach of the winch cable; that would get me back onto the track. I had tools, oil, ignition and carburetor parts. The hand-crank would turn the engine over if the starter wouldn't. With the spark plugs removed the jumping pistons would expel any water that had found its way into the combustion chambers. What else - I knew exactly where to buy local, unpasteurized cheese. That would induce enough rampant diarrhea to expel any parasites. I had a plan - Eore and I were back in business.
As luck would have it, while wading back into the water with renewed purpose a lumber truck groaned its way up the road. The flood waters were now only knee deep. I got a tow and set to work on Eore in the company of my swarm of mosquitos. The Land Rover's snorkel and extended breathers had done their job and let very little water into the running gear. I changed the engine's oil, cleaned the ignition system and Eore fired to life with a cough and a cloud of white smoke. This was a new lesson for the immersive learning files - next time I’ll wait out the water, find high ground like my chatty, patient lumber truck friends and enjoy the dry warmth of the sunshine.
I never did get sick, but nothing dried in the Land Rover in the constant humidity and heat. During the six, north-west bound days I developed brutal diaper rash from the seat cushion. It tortured my ass. Water squelched from the foam when I sat down, leaned into a corner or adjusted my seating position. With the secreted water came renewed burning and itching. I spent a night in a motel before presenting myself at the US border; it was a clean Mom and Pop place. Under the hot water of a shower I felt a pain in my derriere that I feel echoes of to this day. Imagine long strips of duct tape repeatedly torn from your butt-cheeks punctuated by the stab of hundreds of tiny needles. Rest assured - Astrid, my future daughter, had a dutiful, diaper changing daddy; she would never know diaper rash.
At the American border I was sent to a secondary inspection and quickly drew a uniformed crowd. My headlights were half-filled with water, and the depth of the flood waters were visible by a faint scum line on the front windshield. Despite my efforts to look presentable, my inspection consisted of laughter with firmly held noses and expletive enhanced descriptions of the smell of myself and Eore. With the confidence of returning from somewhere I had never been before I niether noticed nor cared.